The Murmurings

By David Walks-As-Bear

1.) "David Walks-As-Bear delivers all the action and suspense you could ever want, but beyond that there is so much wisdom in everything he writes. And so much humanity. In a world of pretenders, David Walks-as-Bear is the real thing." ---Steve Hamilton, author of Michigan's Upper Peninsula's Alex McKnight series 2.) "The Murmurings, a novel of mystery, a novel of mystic-spiritual power, a novel of love, loyalty, friendship, betrayal, and murder; a storyline woven so intricately together that it is a masterpiece. Highly recommended." ---Midwest Book Review 3.) "Ely Stone is a compelling protagonist, richly endowed with both smarts and wit. Through him, David Walks-As-Bear nails voice, character, sense of place, and cultural insight in these pages, and I look forward to reading a great deal more of his work." --Cornelia Read, Madeline Dare series author

• Language: English
• Publisher: Whiskey Creek Press
• Release date: Apr 1, 2012
• ISBN: 9781611603477

Book preview

I>::::::::::>>I>::>>I>::>>I>::

Prologue: Makings of A Ghost

The War on Drugs, The U.S. Coast Guard’s Line In The Water Somewhere South of Key West, Florida—The Recent Past.

I hang my head out of the door of the helicopter and take one last look at the sleek cigarette boat as it races away behind us, the late afternoon sun sparkling off its creamy white wake. That’s the boat I was looking for all right and they almost blew us right out of the sky. Where did they get an RPG? Even better, why didn’t somebody tell me they might have one...? Maaaaan, I gotta start listening to those little noises in my head! The door opening is sucking the smoke out, and when I turn back into the cabin the acrid fumes burn deep into my eyes, causing water to stream down my cheeks. I reach up and pull the helmet-mounted microphone close to my mouth.

The door’s open, Skipper.

Yeah, okay, roger that. How’s Hookerman?

I look over at the mangled body that used to be Petty Officer First Class Charles Hookerman. The explosion killed him instantly. His face and shoulders are a knot of twisted glistening red. We really hadn’t ever gotten along. I knew he resented me, and that was partly because my mere presence onboard the aircraft usurped his position as the crewtech. And, well, that always pissed crewtechs off to a degree. But they usually never took it personally. Hookerman just plain didn’t like me.

I always had the feeling that he disliked Indians and hated CGI (Coast Guard Intelligence) people in particular. Seems like he was from Montana or someplace out there. It isn’t unusual for Westerners to dislike Indians. I’d see him on base somewhere, and he wouldn’t even return a hello. Just the same, he was one of the best airdales I’d served with, even if he didn’t appreciate my companionship. He knew his job and he did it well. Whatever his problem was, he never let it interfere with the job. He treated me as a part of the team for the mission, even if I was a spook. His helmet lolled from side to side. He was married with kids, if I remember right. I shake my head to clear the pictures it contains and key the mike.

He’s dead, Skipper, killed instantly, I answer as I make my way around the gaping hole in the deck and head for the cockpit. As I inch between the two seats, I look over at the pilot, Lieutenant Mike Antlovitch. He’s still wrestling with the controls while talking into his headset. I know what he’s doing, but I think it’s a lost cause. He’s trying to raise someone, but the radio is gone. It’s a wonder that the intercom is still operational. My gaze switches to the co-pilot. There’s a slight trickle of blood dripping down the side of his mouth, and a very unnatural slant to his position.

I raise my right hand to my teeth, and bite the fingertips of the flight glove pulling it free. I haven’t looked at my left hand yet, but I know that it’s messed up pretty bad. A lot of pain and some fair bleeding there. I stick my two right fingers against the copilot’s jugular. Nothing. His visor snapped down during the impact, and I raise it up to see the eyes of Lieutenant JG. Pete Johnston already glazing over. The smoke is getting heavier in the cockpit, and I look over to the pilot. He’s fighting the cyclic, manhandling the aircraft, while calling out MAYDAYs on the dead radio.

I glance back at Johnston and wonder what killed him. I ease him forward, his chest pushing against the harness. The smoke is bad enough that I can’t see clearly, and I have to bend over to make out the three small holes in his flight suit—probably shrapnel—and then I see where the fragments penetrated the seat cushion. I gently set him back. The smoke is getting thicker and carries the scent of scorched metal. I turn back to the pilot. I tap him on his shoulder, but he’s too busy to notice. I glance at the frequency light and switch my own headset over. The fear in the pilot’s voice sends a cold shiver down my spine.

MAYDAY, MAYDAY, MAYDAY...Coast Guard Aircraft 6578...I have injured crewmen onboard and am losing power...Request Assistance ASAP...Does anyone copy...over...

He gives our location, but his plea is answered by the sick sound of solid radio static. A growing uneasiness grips me like a bad case of stomach flu as I tap his shoulder again.

Lieutenant, I think the radio’s shot. What’s going on with the bird? I ask as I point to the instruments in front of him. He turns to look at me and the panic displayed on his face is enough to make me piss my pants. I’d flown with this guy a lot over the past couple of years and he wasn’t the type to scare easily. I get the nasty feeling that we’re in deep shit. He’s probably just in shock, but I can’t sail a paper airplane much less fly this Dolphin. I need this guy to be all right and he sure doesn’t look like he is.

I’ve lost some hydraulics and oil pressure is going. He nervously looks out the window and then back to me. We’re gonna go in. I’ll do the best I can, but you better make sure those guys are secured when we hit the water. How’re they doing? he asks me in gasps as he fights the helicopter.

He is alternately looking at me and at his controls. He didn’t hear me tell him before about Hookerman, and he doesn’t know about Mr. Johnston. I sure don’t want to be the one to tell him that his whole crew is dead but...

Hookerman and Mr. Johnston are dead, sir, and there’s an eighteen-inch hole in the flightdeck. When we touch down, we’re gonna sink like a rock.

His eyes lock onto mine, and they change as he gets the message. I know what he’s thinking. If it wasn’t for me, his crew would still be alive. I can feel the hate as his pale blue eyes blaze into mine, but at least the panic is gone, replaced by a seething scorn. He slowly nods his head.

Okay...see if we got any survival gear back there, yet. I’m gonna look for someplace to set this tired girl down. He switches his attention back to flying the aircraft. He’s the tried and true professional again. His voice is close to calm and his eyes seem steadier. I asked him about injuries right after the hit. He said he wasn’t hurt, just a little shook up. That’s fine. If giving him someone to hate brought him back to reality, that’s tits with me. We can square it once we get down safely.

I make my way back to the tail and pull the netting open. There’s nothing but fast-moving turquoise water where the survival raft used to be. The whole rear of the fuselage has been blown away. Oh that’s just marvelous. What’s next on this fun-filled little excursion?

The survival gear’s gone, Skipper, I say as I start to turn around.

Yeah, well that makes sense considering where we took the hit. His voice vibrates in my ear. Make your way back up here, Stone. Maybe we caaaa...

The helo noses to the right, and I slide toward the open door. My good hand is trying to scratch grooves in the no-skid deck, but gravity is proving more powerful. An all-consuming fear chokes my throat. The bird rights itself as I smack into the starboard side of the aircraft, just missing the opening in the fuselage. Hookerman piles into me. Pushing the dead man off, I scramble forward. The pilot looks like death warmed over. Sweat is pouring off his face like he’s standing bareheaded in a rainstorm and outside the world is spinning.

That’s it, the engine seized. Antlovitch grunts while straining to work the dead controls. I’m autorotating in! There’s a reef down there, but I don’t know how deep it is. Grab something and hang on!

The aircraft spools down in wide circles, and I can’t make any sense of anything through the canopied windows. I struggle to the bulkhead behind the co-pilot’s seat, wrap my arms through the nylon loop straps and scrunch down. The last thing I hear before my helmet is slammed against the bulkhead is Mr. Antlovich’s long and continuously repeated Hail Mary...Mother of God!

* * * *

The world comes back into focus in a darkened haze. I don’t know where I am. After a minute or two, the cobwebs cave in and I remember something about a crash. I start to take inventory. My legs?... Oh please, no... My God, what happened to my legs? I tell them to move—now! And they pop up out of the water. Okay, I guess I still have them, but where did all the water come from? It’s covering the whole inside of the aircraft and is almost a foot deep. I force myself to think. I realize that I’m in shock. My head is pounding, swimming to and fro. Probably some type of concussion. I use my good hand and pull off the helmet and move my arms from the straps.

I call out to Mr. Antlovich. He doesn’t answer. Hookerman’s body is floating near the open door, half in and half out, bobbing like a piece of forgotten driftwood. Peering out the door and into the depths, the phosphorescence of a coral reef glows brightly. The chopper appears to be sitting on the very edge of the incandescent mountain. The only light inside the helicopter is coming from the stars, as I start splashing up toward the cockpit.

As I crawl along, a sharp pain stabs at my knee. I roll over on my butt and raise my leg. A slice of meat is hanging from my kneecap, showing through the torn flight suit. It’s bleeding, but not bad. I feel around under the water, and my hand rubs across a protrusion of something gritty and sharp. I make my way up forward. Mr. Antlovitch’s head is hanging. I reach over his neck, and I already know he’s gone. The starlight is casting an eerie glow inside the downed aircraft, and as I focus my eyes I can see a huge dark stain all around the pilot’s groin. A piece of jagged coral is jutting through his right thigh. It probably cut an artery so that he bled to death. No two ways about it, this day will not get a smiley face in my diary. Outside, through the cracked Plexiglas, the light is dancing off a quiet sea, the gentle waves appearing like rippled black velvet. I ease against the pilot’s seat and the only thing I think or say is a whispered sheeeit.

Something out the window catches my eye. I scoot over and look across Mr. Johnston’s chest. There. There it is again. Just a fish’s fin poking above the calm water’s surface. I slowly realize what kind of a fish has a dorsal fin like that. In that instant, I remember Hookerman. Racing back onto the crewdeck, I grab Hookerman’s leg and start pulling him back from the open door. His left arm is dragging the water, seeping a steady stream of dark looking fluid. All of a sudden, a geyser blasts forth after it. A hideously huge gray and white toothed mouth reaches for Hookerman. Large black omniscient eyes guide the mouth and push it after us.

A scream erupts from inside me before I have to tell it to. Scrambling backward, my foot slips into the blasted-out hole in the deck of the aircraft. The mouth closes with a thaawack onto Hookerman’s arm, and the black eyes twist from side to side. I scream at the top my lungs and pull Hookerman, while pounding the shark with my wounded hand. The fish makes a final jerk creating a disgusting splash and crunch. It completely severs Hookerman’s arm. The shark flops and slides backwards into the water, the crewtech’s dissected arm protruding from its evil mouth as it sinks into the depths.

I get my leg free and drag Hookerman over to the straps behind the co-pilot’s seat, slipping and splashing the whole way. I stare at the open door and my mouth voices my mind’s words.

Holy shit...Hoooly shit! I tie Hookerman off to the straps while watching that damn door. My heart is pounding harder than it ever has and I wonder if it will blow out of my chest. I scoot myself along between the pilot seats, my eyes refusing to leave the door and the frothy black water surrounding it. I scooch back up into the dash between the two dead pilots and wait. Sonavabitch! I hate sharks.

My heart is slowing down now, but I can’t stop my eyes from flicking to the door opening every couple of seconds. Just for the hell of it, my hand reaches up and unsnaps the shoulder holster under my left arm and eases out the Colt 45 pistol resting there. It adds a certain amount of comfort to my psyche. But other parts of my body ain’t so lucky. I can feel the pain setting in again now, and I know that the adrenalin is backing off. With the pain comes the woozies. I can feel reality shifting gears around me.

Somewhere, somehow, I know that the visit’s coming, and I don’t want it to. But I’ve been here many times before and know that this bit of social protocol that will have to go on. I would give anything not to do this. But I know that it’s God’s plan. I also know that it’s just. I ask anyway, already knowing that it’s academic. Please Jesus, don’t make me do this...please? But it’s no use. I always come back. The Great Good Spirit has his reasons for my torment. For the next thirty-seven hours, I’m going to sit and talk with these men. I’m going to hear about Mr. Johnston’s times at the academy and his fiancé. He was going to get married in a month. Hookerman just made the Chief’s list and had one more hitch to go until he retired.

Mr. Antlovitch had four kids, and was looking forward to taking them and his wife back to his parents’ home for Christmas. Like so many times in the past, I tell them that It wasn’t my fault. No one told me that the pukes in the cigarette boat might be carrying a grenade launcher. The only info I had, I tell them, is that the baddies were picking up—not chauffeuring the coke. My command should have clued-me-in, guys; I swear, I’d never have taken us close if I thought they would be carrying heavy stuff! The ghosts say that they don’t blame me for their deaths, but their eyes...their eyes tell a different story. They always do.

And so it is. Here we go again...Mr. Johnston is telling me about the farm he grew up on when the alarm goes off. The ghosts look at me. It’s my call. I tell them I don’t know what it is, as we all turn and look at the overhead of the downed helo. Then, it begins to blur and changes shape, twisting and revolving, and slowly...it becomes...a bedroom ceiling. The alarm is ringing on the nightstand and it takes form as a...telephone.

I>::::::::::>>I>::>>I>::>>I>::

Chapter 1: Time for a change

The Lake Superior Coast off Yellow Dog Point, A Deeply Wooded Lake, Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, Today.

I reach over and pick up the receiver. It’s the hardware store in town and the happy guy on the other end tells me that my chainsaw has been sharpened, tuned up and is ready to go. The clock on the nightstand is reading 8:01 am. That seems too early to be jovial for most folks, but people up here are like that. They’re a happy group that add an eh at the end of almost every sentence and are proud to be ‘Yoopers,’ short for upper Michiganders.

I mumble a few words of thanks, and tell him I’ll be in to get it. After I hang up the phone, I look at my pillow. It’s soaked with sweat. There are few things I hate in this world anymore, but sleep is beginning to hold first place in the limited inventory. I really hate that dream, too. I rub the light scars on my left hand and look out the cabin’s window. Another beautiful fall day. The trees are bursting with color and the sun’s already dancing off the dewy grass.

After pulling out a clean pair of underwear from the dresser, I move into the tiny bathroom. I twist on the shower to get the old hot water heater to begin its labored function, then pop the lid on the toilet and relieve a bladder that holds its share of beer from last night. I turn the water off in the tub, and apply shaving cream to a face that is haunted, to say the least.

After dressing and taking another look in the mirror, I’m reminded of why I never became a model. Never mind the fact that I ain’t pretty enough, but wearing a suit is something I’ve never done well. Seeing my reflection staring back, I know why. I don’t look half bad in Coast Guard Blues, and on occasion, I can even manage to look decent in a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. But in a dark suit, I look just like one of those guys that does the greetings at a funeral home.

My biggest fear is that I’ll be wearing a suit someday at a funeral, and they’ll mistake me for either an undertaker or the dead guy. Given the choice between the two...I guess I’d rather be the corpse. I shake my head as I look at the face in the mirror. I’ve been tentatively offered a job, and it sounds like one I could deal with. I want to make a good impression when I interview, and I think I probably even want the job. But it’s not worth this. There’s nothing worth being uncomfortable anymore, be it physical or mental. I untwist the tie and slide it off my neck as I open the closet and spy a Western dress shirt. Standing in front of the reflection again in a peach shirt with black piping and a pair of clean Levis topped off by a deer hide belt, turquoise buckle and polished black shitkickers, my appearance is more satisfactory. At least to me anyway.

I bend in a little closer, and see the dark rings surrounding my eyes and the hundreds of little red lines in the whites that make them look like the open page of a road atlas. I don’t look so good, but what the hell, sleep is elusive when you visit with ghosts. Being one myself...I ought to know. A half hour later, I sip some coffee and turn my wrist to the black face of a battered old diver’s watch. It’s ten after ten, and my interview is at four. I’ve got plenty of time.

As I walk into the kitchen, I grab my cigarette box off the table, and continue out through the back door. I pull my uncle’s old Zippo lighter out of my pants pocket and shake out a cigarette. As I suck in the first smoke of the day, I take in the majestic beauty that surrounds me. The maples are a fusillade of reds, oranges, and yellows, and I feel like I’m standing in a monstrous kaleidoscope. The lake wraps around the cabin like a lazy fat snake and a lone blue heron is fishing the shallows for an early breakfast. A flock of mallards are cruising the far shore, their feeding chatter biting the crisp air like mini-machine guns. The center water is rippled by a muskrat, chugging along as he cuts across its girth. Behind me, in the thick tangle of thorn apple woods, I can hear a bunch of blue jays arguing heatedly over something.

I’ve inherited this place. It was my uncle’s home for eighty two years and his father’s and grandfather’s before him. The forty acres that the old cabin sits on was part of the original reservation. It’s not far from Yellow Dog Point, nestled on the Lake Superior shoreline. In the early 1800s, each family was given a forty acre tract as part of the land deeded in the only treaty that the Pukaskwa ever signed. Originally, there were some sixty-five families living on their own land here. But as time and life moved on, the Black River Band of Pukaskwa sold or lost most of their property.

Contrary to the popular opinion of sociologists, very little of it was stolen. While the scenario of the white man’s graft and corruption was true for many Indian nations, it wasn’t the case for the Black River Band. Here, it was mostly just plain old greed on the part of the Indians. As a kid, I remember summer trips to this cabin, and my mother’s face smiling admiringly at her brother as he sat on the porch and talked heatedly of local Indians that sold their land to the paper mills.

I pull another puff of smoke from the hand-rolled and cut my eyes to the weathered old porch swing. My uncle would rant and rave, but he learned long ago that the land wasn’t as important to others as it was to him. He would work himself into a frenzy, and then plead with his sister to come help him try and convince folks that they were doing wrong. But mamma was married to a man that would never leave the hills of West Tennessee again, so she only grinned at her brother and tried to console him. As it turned out, the Black River Band hadn’t fared so badly in the end.

But even knowing that wouldn’t have changed my father’s mind. My Daddy had worked the barges of the muddy Mississippi when the Second World War broke out. He enlisted in the Coast Guard. He’d worked with the Coasties every day on the job and he knew how the service worked. They’d sent him to a world of freezing cold Lake Superior water, tall timber and chest-high snow. He hated the cold. I feel a smile stretch my mouth as I remember his favorite saying. The only thing I found that I cared fer up yonder was thet little Indian girl, and hell, if’n ever I get ’er mad, she kin be cooler then a dadgum paddle pop, too. Otherwise, the old man didn’t even want the memories of Northern Michigan.

My father ended up the war as a beach master on D-Day’s Omaha Beach. He took an 8mm round in the hip and the Million-dollar wound sent him back to the comfort of the good old USA. Once back home though, the warmth of the South beckoned him. And my mother followed. Daddy was what was called a ‘Hill Indian.’ His people were a mixture of White, Cherokee, Shawnee and Choctaw. His folks had taken to the low-lying hills when the government came through with its Trail of Tears program. They hid out until the party was over. I knew my mother missed her home here, and felt strongly that Uncle Mason was right. The two of them had grown up in this old pine cabin, and, while I think she secretly longed to come back, she never talked about it. Daddy understood though, because we visited often and my brother and I spent many a summer in this majestic place.

A splash down at the water pulls me out of my reverie as the heron snags a small pike. The lake water where the bird’s standing looks like coiled molasses with the full morning sun beating down on it. I watch until the heron chokes down the flopping fish, and then turn to the rising yellow orb and say my prayers. When I finish, I let my eyes wander to the old elm stump, littered with cuts. What’s left of the old tree stands maybe seven feet tall and is maybe three feet in diameter. It’s part of what I’ve used to occupy many an hour over the past couple of years.

My Daddy taught my brother and me how to throw a knife when we were little. He told us that our folks used to carry hatchets or tomahawks when they worked the Mississippi River in the old days. A throwback to the Indian times. Being good at throwing one and putting it where you had to was sometimes necessary back then. But, now days, a good knife was all you needed. Putting it where you wanted required as much skill as ever though. Knife throwing, he’d said, was how we keep our senses sharp. Over the years, I found it to be true. Some folks whittle a piece of wood to while away time, but I throw my knife.

The knife is stuck on a chunk of wood there by the swing. I switch the cigarette to my left hand as I move over, pulling up the hefty blade. The Coast Guard had issued this aviation survival knife to me. It has a solid hardened black steel blade that takes and keeps an edge. It also has a deep blood trough and a serrated saw on top of the blade. On the butt of the handle is a weighted steel cap, used for hammering. I’ve had the knife for the better part of eighteen years and during that time, have indeed used it for its namesake...to survive. I’ve speared fish, cut trees, killed animals and...other things with it. The handle is wrapped in rawhide, and over time I’ve worked with the weight of the knife, fine-tuning it for balance and throwing. I can hit where I aim, and bury the blade if I take a notion. I am proud of this tiny talent, even if it is unused and virtually useless in civilian society. Besides, I’ve used it aptly and well on occasion while in the employee of Uncle Sugar.

I feel a smile slipping over my lips as I recall another thing I used to be able to do with the blade. Whenever in a combat situation, I’ve always carried the knife sheathed upside down on the inside of my right arm. Time was when I could unsnap the blade, and with a single twitch of the arm have the knife down and sailing through the air toward its target in a half-second. I don’t practice that little move, anymore. No reason to. I feel the smile enlarge, because if I tried that little trick today, I’d probably slice my hand off in the process. I flip the knife in the air and catch it. I know I have to get going. I am stalling, more or less. I look over at the elm stump, and whip the knife in a fluid motion. I hear it whistle through the air and stick with a loud thawack at five feet of height.

Cupping the cigarette, I draw the last of its smoke, then half-consciously fieldstrip the butt and drop it in my pocket. Old habits are hard to break. Walking back into the kitchen, I flip off the coffeemaker, drop my cup in the sink and mosey back into the bedroom. Over the bed there’s a fairly good reproduction of Remington’s Custer’s Last Stand. The picture is kind of an inspiration for me. A reminder that should I ever decide to bring a lady here, Indians can and do get lucky sometimes.

Pushing the large frame over, I reach into the recession I’d chiseled into the log wall and pull out the little holstered gun, its oil glistening in the fractured light. The tiny pistol is a Glock model 27. The Coast Guard had just phased these weapons in for intelligence work before I retired. I’ve used it for the past couple of years, and compared to other small guns this little 40-caliber was a sweet weapon. Since I’m a retired Fed, I can carry it with no problem. I would, however, have carried a gun even if there was a problem. That’s just me.

Tucking the gun into my back as I go, I move over to the closet and grab my old leather flight jacket from the hook and drape it over my arm. After a final glance around the living room, I walk out through the front door, hearing the knob click shut as I pull it to. Stepping off the front porch, I follow an age-old trail in the tall grass that leads to the ancient barn. Moving around to the two vertical wooden doors that enclose its front, I know without looking that they’ll be a pain in the ass to open. Sure enough, they stick as I try to pull them apart. But I catch a peek inside as the door parts a little. There’s just enough of her cleavage showing to set me to smiling. Picking up on the door while grunting, I’m able to pull the heavy old logged structure to the side.

It’s a down-right shame to keep something so incredibly beautiful and alive locked up in this decrepit old shack, but I can’t leave her outside naked to the elements. What lies behind the porous old wood is a 1972 Dodge Charger SE. From her 383ci Magnum to her hideaway headlights, she’s the car I always dreamed of in my youth. I watched cars like this cruising the streets in the ’70s as my buddies and I lit-up the asphalt on Friday and Saturday nights with our beefed-up old stockcars. Nothing we had compared to this Charger. She was manufactured muscle, and made for guys with money. And that did not describe my buddies or me.

I got the car the summer before I left the service. I paid the fee of a solemn and sacred promise for a vintage muscle car with 2700 actual miles and the essence of the word ‘cherry.’ To this day, I still marvel at God’s sense of irony, or maybe...his sense of humor. The Dodge had only spent two months on the road before it was stored. Its twenty-two year old owner died in the brown waters of Viet Nam. I happened to see the Charger’s nose through an open garage door, over a quarter century later, in what had once been a respectable middle-class Florida neighborhood. I parked and walked up to an old gentleman who was busy watering a lawn that could never be lush again because of the litter, spilled anti-freeze, blood, and General human run-off that was now what the neighborhood consisted of. When I asked him if the Charger might be for sale, and explained how I had always wanted one, his old eyes switched quickly to the open garage door and stayed there.

He stared at the opening in the garage for several minutes, neither of us talking. When he turned back to look to me, the old brown eyes were filled with water. His voice was jittery as he looked at my uniform and asked, You in the Navy? I didn’t understand what had set the old fella off, and I shook my head. No, sir...Coast Guard.

He nodded, and looked back at the garage. You know, I haven’t had that door open in at least ten years. My boy Larry was in the Navy. We bought that car for him right after he finished college. First one in the family to ever do that and everyone chipped in...aunts, uncles, cousins...everybody.

He shook his head and wiped his eyes, and then turned to look at me again. The deal was, he had to take care of it and he did. Until his ROTC time came. He had to go, but the fool kid volunteered for them SEALS, or whatever, over there in Viet Nam.

The old eyes wandered back to the garage again. He parked it there, covered it with that old tarp and made me promise not to let anybody drive it just before he left. And I haven’t. He never came home though. He loved that car but I reckon it’s time for someone else to drive it now. He bent down and screwed the hose spray off.

Well...maybe it would be better if someone else in the family kept the car, sir. I didn’t mean to trouble you. I started to turn away, but he grabbed my arm.

No, son, you don’t understand. There ain’t nobody else who would appreciate that car. Aw hell, boy, I don’t know, maybe you’ve got to be a sailor or something to want that old car. But there’s none of my other sons or daughters who will have anything to do with it. I reckon to us, it’ll always be Larry’s car. I know that Larry would want someone to have it that appreciated it. I’ll make the same deal with you that I had with him. You take care of it and it’s yours! His old eyes had a forlorn pleading in them. The story that he told caused me to pain deeply for him.

Do we have a deal, son? If we do, you go on over there and see what it’ll take to get it started. I’ll go see if I can find the keys. I looked at his imploring face and had to clear my throat before answering. Sir, if that car is in any kind of shape at all, it’s worth a lot of money. I’d be happy to pay... But he didn’t let me finish.

No boy, he said as he stepped behind me and put his arms to my shoulders and pushed me in the direction of the garage, Larry’s be proud to know that somebody got his car that loves it like he did, and that son...is all that’s important to me.

The car is covered in a factory coated blue-gray metal flake that gives her a ghostly quality in sun or shade It seems like she’s not really there. A lot like me I guess. And that’s probably why I like her so much. We’re the same. The car, his son Larry and a lot of others. Ghosts in the physical, flesh and spirit. Oh, I believe it’s irony, but I also can appreciate the Great Good Spirit’s sense of humor. I spent the better part of my Coast Guard career living in shadows, fighting wars that nobody knew or cared about. I learned to be mystical being—there, but seeming not to be. A true shape shifter—Indian to the bone. But like the spirits that have these abilities, a trade-off is mandatory. A little of your soul must be traded for the deal.

The 383 cubic-inch magnum cracks as she lets loose, her factory-capped headers resonating off the overhanging tree limbs as I ease her down the old logging road. I’ve missed the pleasure of driving a car, if for no other reason than just driving it. There’s a lot I’ve missed. A sailor too long at sea and all that stuff. All part of the bargain. But I’m out of that contract now, and my deal with the devil, old ‘Watchemoneto’ himself, the great evil spirit, is null and void. After I get to the blacktop, I open her up a bit.

I drive the Charger down and around the hilly wooded land that makes up Northern Michigan. The day is meant to be enjoyed. As I top a hill, I can see four deer standing in the road up ahead. The mating ritual is in its infant stages, and the whitetails are already acting strange. I lay on the horn to get them moving, and they take the hint, busting into a tangle of jack pines. I look down at a small valley and see a red-tailed hawk, lofting in huge circles, searching for its next meal. The radio’s cranking out oldies, and man...if this ain’t heaven, I don’t know what is.

I head the car down the twisting old blacktop and wonder about the job. I’ve been living alone for quite awhile now, since putting in my papers. Lately, I’ve been getting the distinct impression that it’s time to move on, whether I want to or not. It’s time I guess. But given my druthers, I’d just as soon sit around the cabin: hunting, fishing, and communing. But, being a child of the military, you learn to do what you’re told. And God has made it pretty clear. In my heart, I can feel the need to address the living again, so, I’ll follow orders and check out the job.

I’ve got a couple of hours to kill, so I’ll drop into town, pick up the chain saw and maybe some toiletries. Maybe even a new shirt or two, some underwear and socks. I’ve needed all of them for awhile, but haven’t had the urge to drive into town to get them. Yeah, it’s time for a change. I feel a slow smile cutting at my mouth. Uh, huh. Well, one of the worst things about being a ghost...is the tendency to haunt just one special place. And my cohort in things supernatural adds her two cents to my thoughts. The Charger finishes out my little mental horror scene, as her exhaust cracks loudly, like rolling thunder...on a dark stormy night.

I>::::::::::>>I>::>>I>::>>I>::

Chapter 2: The Black River Band

The Pukaskwa Black River Band Tribal Headquarters, Near Marquette, Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, The Same Day.

A couple of hours later, the Dodge and I arrive in the bustling little soon-to-be casino town of Wiitikan. I stop at a gas station to feed the Charger some premium and to get directions. The folks inhabiting this new tribal village don’t appear much different than any others spread across Upper Michigan. They look at me and return the friendly smile I send them. For all intents and purposes, the town folk could easily be classified as Caucasian. As my gaze switches from new building to new building and to freshly completed landscaping and brand new white concrete curbs, I feel my mouth crack a small smile. Human nature is a fickle thing. Many of these folks would not change with the arrival of their new identities. They’d go on living pretty much as they always have, taking the new blessings in stride and being grateful for the gifts that they actually are.

Many others though, who never even knew they had Indian blood, and prior to the change, couldn’t tell the difference between a spear point and an arrowhead, would become radical minorities. They’d rant and rave about how the Indians have been mistreated. They’d delve into the customs and speak as though they’ve practiced them all their lives. They’d become the loudest voices in the revitalized tribe. In essence, they’ll become what only a short while ago...they weren’t. And strangest of all is that while they’d do it, the practice of political correctness would accept it.

The gas hose clicks itself off and as I add some additional lead to the tank, and hang the hose back on the pump. I look around at the small town. A new park is going in across from the service station. There’re huge silver maples that funnel in and out of the swing sets, slide and green wooded playhouses. With little imagination, I can see kids running among the huge trunks and busting the sky on those swings, almost touching the limbs of the massive maples. The land surrounding the village is indeed pretty. And I sure don’t begrudge the new tribal identity. It’s long overdue. There has never been a race more persecuted than the American Indian people, at least on this continent. I’ve always known that. American Indians had their land, customs, language and religion taken from them as cleanly as a filleted fish loses its bones. Genocide was practiced and whole tribes ceased to exist, right down to the last man, woman, and child. Slavery was tried and tried hard on the Indian, but the culture and essence that makes us what we are, wouldn’t allow it to stick.

Indians died by the thousands while in bondage, usually trying to escape. Hell, Indians didn’t even have the right to vote until the 1920s—some, not even until the 1950s. Nope, I know it’s fair and equitable for Uncle Sammy to give back a little of what he took in the name of God, greed and Manifest Destiny. As I walk through the station door and hold it open for a thankfully nodding old fellow carrying a plastic grocery bag and a half gallon of milk, I spy the cashier at the counter. She’s maybe eighteen, with drastically short blond spiked hair and blue eyes. As I walk up and hand her my credit card, she casually licks her lips and smiles brightly. That’s when I see that her tongue is pierced.

The theme seems to go well with her pierced nose and lip. I ask her if she could tell me where the tribal council building is, and as she explains, I notice her high cheek bones and probable Indian lineage. She pleasantly directs me around the corner to a can’t miss it location. She’s what the Black River Pukaskwa have evolved into. Uncle Mason would sure be surprised at this revelation. And while this girl may not be one of them, there’s plenty of others who’ll yell and scream about the Washington Redskins and the Atlanta Brave’s chop, chop of the tomahawk. They call it degrading to the Native American. But for the people who were originally wronged and whose descendents are now being repaid for that disservice, the degradation would probably be manifest within their own people.

Indians, no matter what the tribe or nation, all share a common bond. They are a prideful people, living a life of character, respect and dignity. To my mind, a large part of those qualities have been lost, and to that extent, we’re no different than anyone else. I pull the Charger into the freshly paved Council lot. The bright yellow lines marking the parking places are still vivid against the black drive. And the white concrete sidewalks still show the fresh milky residue of flowing cement. My wrist turns over as I look at the watch and realize that I still have a good half-hour until my appointment. I pop the door and habitually fieldstrip my hand-rolled cigarette, allowing the tobacco to float down to the asphalt. Depositing the tiny paper in my pocket, I head up toward the lobby entrance for a look-see.

I noticed the casino, which is under construction on the way into town, but this place is brand new, too. The Council Building can’t be any more than six months old. It’s a three-story structure combining rough wood and off-white stucco in a rustic pattern. The large office windows are shaded, but reflect the blue fall sky and puffy white clouds even though they’re set into the weathered wood. Overall, the exterior is just what you’d expect of a tribal council headquarters. I open one of the double doors to the main lobby and look for a reception desk or counter. There’s an office cubical with sliding glass doors to the rear of the lobby. Even from this distance, I can tell that the young woman sitting at the desk is more than a little attractive. She appears to be reading something.

There are numerous displays and artifacts placed throughout lobby and a number of kiosks scattered about. I ease behind one of the walled kiosks before the young lady sees me. Most of the walls hold old photographs, each with a little legend stating who’s in the picture and what family donated it. I researched the newly recognized tribe pretty well after Charlie called me. What this group of Indians had garnered from an 1811 treaty did, and still does, boggle my feeble little mind. Charlie Adkins and I go way back. Charlie and I reported at about the same time to our first duty locale, a little Coast Guard search and rescue station nestled into the Lake Michigan dunes called Station Frankfort.

My reverie is brought to a halt as a phone rings down in the little cubical. Easing around the wall, I see the girl holding the phone to her ear as she shuffles through some paperwork. I casually slip across the opening to another kiosk and wander down the rows of photographs. Charlie has always been a friend. Over the years, we’ve kept in touch, mostly because we have developed a bond of sorts. You don’t spend hundreds of hours together in a forty-four foot motor lifeboat, chugging along out on the Great Lake in light, dark, fair, and foul weather without getting to know your crewmates pretty well. But that goes double for us. Most of the other Coasties working the station had been there before us or come after. But because we came onboard at the same time, we spent that whole tour together. Old Charlie went back home to college after our four year stint at Frankfort, but I reenlisted. He graduated, got married and took a job with the Bureau of Land Management, and has been a career government puke ever since.

It was Charlie that called me about the Black River Band. Since Charlie works for the BLM, which is under the Department of Interior, it ain’t too surprising that he hears stuff. Especially since the Bureau of Indian Affairs, comes under the DOI, too. But the fact that the Black River Band received the largest cash payment for latent treaty rights in history was amazing. One point six billion dollars. That’s a lot of cash, or in Indian terms, really heap big wampum. I can’t help but chuckle as I tick my fingers against an original Remington hanging on the wall. The painting is one of the few the artist did depicting Woodland Indians. It had to have cost a pretty penny, but the tribe could afford it.

Federal attorneys had known that the Tribe’s take would be huge for years. That was why they’d held it up for as long as possible in the courts. The treaty was ironclad. In 1811, the tiny Black River Band inhabited some 20,800 acres of Lake Superior waterfront in the U.P. of Michigan. The U.S. wanted the land and needed the Black River Band as allies against the British in the War of 1812. In simple basic terms, the treaty stated that for relinquishing the land and agreeing to fight the British, the U.S. Government would immediately deed each tribal family a total of forty acres, and that as soon as the war ended the U.S. would pay the tribe for the land at its fair market value and feed and clothe the tribe forever, blah, blah, blah...as these stories go.

It would have been a good deal for Uncle Sugar, too, if he’d held up his end. But he’d never fed or clothed a single Pukaskwa and he didn’t pay that fair market value until some one hundred and eighty-five years after the war ended. By that time, the land had become highly desired prime waterfront by the affluent Wisconsins and ‘Trolls’ or lower peninsula Michigan citizens. They’re called Trolls by the Yoopers because they live under the Mackinaw Bridge. Quaint, but true.

Anyway, the land was worth a lot more than it had been when the real estate brokers were wearing pointy little triangle hats. Charlie remembered that my mother had been from the Black River people, and he made sure I knew about it, even before the tribal elders got the word. He knew me better than to expect me to cash-in on the bonanza, but he figured I’d be interested. And he was right. I’ve always been fascinated by my culture, and I keep tabs on what’s going on out of a flat-out curiosity.

I stop by an old, yellowed photograph. On the dog eared and faded parchment, the side wall of a cabin is clear. An Indian man, woman and four children are perched against a wood pile, the kids scattered like they were flung up there along with the protruding pieces of split timber. There’s a smile on every face except for that of the man. He’s holding an old lever-action Winchester in one hand and the woman’s hand in the other. On his face is a look of pride and contentment.

Every picture I’ve ever seen of my grandfather has a similar expression on his face. My grandmother is looking sideways at Uncle Mason, my mother, Uncle Ely and Uncle Jack. A mother’s pride is different than that of a father I guess. I drop my eyes down to the legend. Donated by Amos Reddeer. Oh, yeah, I remember Mr. Reddeer. He used to own the forty acres next to Uncle Mason’s place...well...my place now.

Can I help you with anything?

The voice is deceptively light and seductive, and as I turn to look at her, I realize that the girl from the cubical has snuck up on me while I was entranced in family history. She is definitely Indian with some white overtones. She’s wearing a pair of faded jeans, a blue and white checked blouse and simple white deck shoes without socks. When topped off by her ‘no ring on left hand,’ long, light brown hair and almond-brown eyes, she’s enough to stop traffic, not to mention my feeble old heart.

Uh, yeah...I suppose so. My name’s Stone. I’ve got an appointment with Mr. Hennessey at four o’clock. I wave my hand at the displays. I was early, so I thought I’d look around for a bit. A smile decorates her face, and in the process, her lovely eyes disappear, hidden by mirth lines all around her face. Ohhh man, move over Miss Universe, you’ve just been bumped...big time.

So you’re Mr. Stone. We’ve been expecting you, eh? She shakes her head in an ‘aw gee’ manner. My name’s Annette Cole. I’m the Tribal Secretary. She sticks out her hand and I take it, squeezing gently and shaking once before reluctantly letting it go. Her smile is mesmerizing as she continues. Why don’t you come with me and I’ll introduce you to everyone.

Okay...uh, I guess I was unaware that there was going to be an everyone. My understanding was that I’d be meeting with just Mr. Hennessey? As we walk up the staircase she nods her head.

Yes, that would have been the case if you were just here for an initial interview, but when we offer a position to someone, we usually have all the people there who’ll be interacting with that new person. I’m allowing myself to linger two or three steps behind her, mostly because I’m enjoying the view.

Uh, ma’am, to my knowledge, I’ve never given you folks a resume or application. Is there a possibility you have me confused with someone else?

She looks back over her shoulder as we make the landing and her eyes disappear again with her smile. Oh, I think we know quite a bit about you from Amos, and anything else we might need, you can probably provide today.

My turn to nod my head. Uh, huh. Umm, who’s Amos then?

We stop at a large oak door with the lettering TRIBAL COUNCIL CHAMBERS. Oh, that would be Amos Reddeer, our Tribal Shaman. She smiles as she opens the door.

I>::::::::::>>I>::>>I>::>>I>::

Chapter 3: The Job

The Black River Band Tribal Chamber, Wiitikan, MI.

We walk through a doorway that lets into a huge room, windowed all along one side. The walls are lined with solid oak, stained a rich walnut that is highlighted by the champagne colored carpet. Down the center runs a solid mahogany table, coupled with twelve or so large black leather chairs. On the walls are hand paintings, mandalas, dream catchers, and other Native American artwork. At one end of the table sit four people who look our way as we come in. This is definitely one prestigious boardroom. I find myself glancing sideways for the executive washroom key as the people rise to meet us.

The man at the end of the table, a fellow of maybe fifty-five or sixty, gets up and moves around toward me as I hear Miss Cole close the door. He is medium height, graying, maybe five-nine and has the barrel chest and sharply chiseled countenance typical of a Pukaskwa. Mr. Stone, how do you do? My name’s John Hennessey, the Council President. He extends his right hand while clasping his left on my shoulder. I return his handshake as he pivots and introduces me to the others.

Three people take turns reaching across the table to shake my hand. The first is Alan Morse. A very ‘white’ looking guy, standing six-three, he has a beefy build, sandy, blond hair and blue eyes. He may be about my age and he is dressed in the uniform of a Pukaskwa tribal police captain with all the cop stuff: shiny gold badge, Sam Brown, 9-mm Smith, etc. He doesn’t smile when we shake hands. The next is introduced as Nancy Morningstar, the Council’s treasurer. Now she’s smiling sweetly and seems very pleasant. She may be thirty-five years old and proudly wearing gold wedding and engagement rings. She has her dark hair put up in a pony tail. The next is Paul Schultz, the Tribal attorney. Paul is tall, slim and probably late thirties. There’s Indian blood in his background, and out of everyone, he’s the only person dressed for the occasion. He’s wearing a nice double-breasted suit and gives me the standard limp lawyer handshake.

The third person has walked around the far end of the table and was now standing next to me. Hennessey looks at the old man standing there. And I believe you know Amos Reddeer.

I turn to face him and am struck by how much he has changed since last I saw him. This guy is old. I mean if he is less than a thousand, I’ll eat my hat. And my hat fell off my head into the septic tank the other day while I was trying to unplug a sewer line.

I stick out my hand. Mr. Reddeer, it’s been a long time, sir. He looks down at my extended hand and then back to my eyes. He then steps up and embraces me in a feeble hug. I hear him whisper,

It’s been a long while for you to see me, young Raining Wolf, but I’ve been seeing you pretty regular, eh? He releases me and then reaches down and takes my hand and gives it a shake. He looks up at me with watery old black eyes and the traces of a smile linger at the edges of his mouth.

It’s been a long time since I’ve been called by my childhood name, and it shakes me a little. I don’t know what to say and even if I did, I wouldn’t be able to. Then, he ambles back around the table to his seat.

Hennessey points to Annette. And I assume you’ve met Miss Cole, our secretary?

She comes up beside me and pulls out a chair at the table. I ‘m still a little off balance by being called Raining Wolf. Uncle Mason gave me my Indian name, and he was the only person who ever used it.

Uh, yeah, I have. I answer as I take my seat and the others follow suit.

Hennessey looks from face to face and finally settles on mine. Where to begin, Mr. Stone. Well, how about with names, eh? as he wipes his hands together and smiles. Would it be okay if I called you Ely?

Yes, sir, please do.

Good, and please call me John and, he looks around the table, I assume everyone else would prefer first names, too? Everyone nods.

Hennessey clears his throat. When I called you awhile back, I believe we spoke about a job with the Band. I’m not sure how much we discussed at that time...uh, do you have any recollection?

My turn to clear a throat. Well, sir, I don’t think we got into specifics. You said that you knew I was retired from the military and that my name had been listed on tribal roles. Uh...let’s see...you said that you’d done some checking and found that I had some fairly unusual experience and that the tribe may be able to use a person with a similar background who could work very independently. That’s about it, sir, and to be honest, I was only interested in what you had to say. Mostly, that part about working independently was what pricked my interest and that’s why I’m here.

I look around the table and speaking of ‘pricked,’ old cop suit looks every inch a prick. Most of the others returned my looks with interest but Morse has a disgusted expression painted all over his face. This guy doesn’t like me. That’s bad ’cause I know I’ll just toss and turn all night wondering why. Uh, huh. You bet. What a pity. Hennessey pulls a manila folder up and opens the cardboard page.

All right. We’ve, um...taken the liberty of gathering some information about you from select sources. Please don’t take offence, but for the positions of high trust and responsibility, we have no other choice but to go about it like this.

He looks over at me and all I can think to do is shrug my shoulders. Jeez, the suspense is building. What’s all this about anyway?

Okay...it seems that you retired from the Coast Guard as a Warrant Officer and a...special agent? He looks at me curiously, his eyebrows raised in a question mark.

Uh, yeah. That’s right. I spent most of my career assigned to CGI or Coast Guard Intelligence. I was a federal law enforcement officer and investigator in that capacity.

I look at Hennessey and then to the other faces around the table. Amos Reddeer is smiling and looking at his shoes. Morse is ever so slowly shaking his head while staring at the ceiling. Everyone else seems to be waiting for me to go on.

Let’s see...I also worked closely with other military services and their intelligence arms as well as all other federal law enforcement and intelligence agencies. A few heads nod here and there, but my little spiel still doesn’t seem to be adequate.

Why don’t you ask me some direct questions, Mr. Hennessey, because I really don’t know what you’re looking for.

Hennessey waves his hand. Please call me John. He picks up the folder and begins to tap its end on the table as he looks around at his people. Several of them shrug their shoulders and nod their heads. I’m beginning to wonder if the reason their heads nod so much is because they’re not screwed on too tight. Hennessey turns back to me.

"Okay, Ely, it’s like this. We know a good deal about you and your history. We also know that you’ve been checking up on us and have undoubtedly learned enough to know that we’re a very wealthy tribe right